Like most things that float in the sky, Chryse appears serene, but its atmosphere is tense as guy wire.
“We’re the tail of the archipelago, and the sharks are circling,” says Clary Sage. “If we refuse to take up arms, like Psyttalia–”
“What happened on Psyttalia was a failure of engineering,” growls Wolfram Tungsten.
“The raiders won’t distinguish that!”
His fist thumps oak. “And our engines won’t fail! Besides, who on this island will you call to arms? Teenage artificers? White-haired herbalists?”
“My hair is not white, Wolfram Tungsten,” says Clary Sage.
“I can see that, Clary Sage,” he says.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
“Okay, well, bad news first. Â The sample did come back positive for antibodies to AD36,” says the doctor in her lilting Northern inflection.
Maurice feels as if someone has stepped on his viscera. Â “I’m a carrier.”
“Most people are asymptomatic. Â Even if you do begin displaying infectobesity, proper diet and exercise–”
“You don’t understand, he says. Â I’m American.”
“Oh.” Â She gets it. Â “The Healthy Kids Act.”
He swallows. Â “I’m a teacher. Â If I get selected for testing next year–the camps–”
“You can claim asylum here, Mr. Langham. Â I’ll give you an address.”
But Maurice is picturing his fifth-graders, apple-cheeked, innocent, doomed.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
“It’s an unreasonable request.”
“Yes, it is, but reason doesn’t enter into it at this point.” Alcid looks strained. “You have to fix the race.”
Proper makes jerky movements with her hands. “They’re dachshunds, Alcid! We can barely get them to point the right direction in the first place!”
“Then just… dope them or something!” Alcid says. “Like with horses!”
“Like with horses.”
“Yes!”
Proper slips a little Pepto-Bismol into their food dishes, which–as it turns out–is not the same as Alka-Seltzer like she thought. Miss Whiffles wins anyway. She thought she saw a piece of cheese.
Jirou got his first itinerarium for a birthday; it came with a package of little starter journeys, but they never quite made it past the planning phase. Since then he’s been saving up from his job at the game store, and today he’s brought home his first real pilgrimage.
He plops it down in the sand of the glass torus and watches it struggle to its feet. Its feet are bound in sackcloth, and it carries a heavy stone on its back. He taps the glass. It stumbles forward, eyes on the false horizon, to begin its slow and endless loop.
Greg may not leave this mortal plane while bound by unfinished business, which sucks because he’s sure somebody else is hitting on Cecilia back on the Astral right now.
“I can sense great anxiety,” the medium intones, correctly for once. Greg polters with the doorknob, hoping she’ll hurry up. They gasp. “Let your wishes be known, spirit!”
“I have three books out from the library, they’re under my bed, PLEASE tell someone to look,” he says.
Silence falls; the room fills with heartbeats.
“I believe I hear the letter J,” says the medium. Greg haunts the crap out of her cat.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Jericho has an eye made of mother of pearl, and keeps the real one in a raven’s beak; in this way, though half-blind, he watches the world. Â Jericho’s left arm is iron and his teeth sprung gold and ivory. Â He keeps his brain beneath a crystal dome, that his thoughts might stay sharp and clear.
Only Jericho is permitted to employ such bindings. Â Only Jericho can harness the truths thus unlocked.
“Mercy,” begs the young mage they drag before him, two fingers cut to stumps. Â But Jericho keeps his heart far away, in a box on the floor of the sea.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Murdron and Garmegula are pushing down buildings to see how many other buildings they can topple, domino-style. Concrete breaks loose from twisted rebar; a tiny clang echoes from Murdron’s foot down what remains of the street.
Klaxons klax from Murdron’s klaxula. “Our lifestyle is under attack!” he thunders, deploying laserbursts to rake the rubblescape. Garmegula stomps through three hospitals and the Humane Society. Norbert, struggling for breath through a crushed ventilator, throws a picture of his late family at Garmegula’s tail.
Tink, goes the picture.
“I KNEW IT,” shrieks Garmegula in righteous triumph, and douses a daycare with radioactive pee.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Spirit oil is cheaper than you’d think, but there are lots of dead people.
Proper rubs down the pneumatic screen-door closer with it; it works okay. Of course, the dead ask him for things whenever he goes out to the porch now.
“Remember my names,” they wheeze in tiny voices as he carries out a plate of steaks. “Curse my enemies! Regret as I regretted; live as I never lived!” Proper doesn’t mind. The screen door closes a lot easier.
He does try asking what their names were. They just mumble a lot, and get embarrassed when they can’t remember.
There’s exactly one of exactly what you want, in the corner, on a shelf, half-wrapped in dirty cloth.
“Oh my God,” she says, “how old is this? Â And still intact?”
“Please don’t touch,” smiles the stallkeeper, “the wax is delicate. And I’m afraid it’s spoken for…”
“I’ll beat their offer,” says Candle. Â “Two thousand? Two five?”
“Closer to five.”
“Three.”
“Four fifty.”
“Three six.”
“Four.”
“Three seventy-five.”
“Three eighty?”
“Three seventy-five.”
“Sold!” says the stallkeeper. Â “I’ll take it.”
Confused, Candle shakes hands and sits on the shelf. Â The cloth is cool and soft around her.
Wait.
Is that really her name?
There are six other people currently following Tristan and Mowbray dislikes all of them. They’re redundant. Why do they show up in person? Mowbray has the most experience, and issues regular updates on tristansgarbage.tumblr.com and twitter.com/tristracker. The latter are even geotagged.
Granted, one might interpret the sporadicity of updates to mean that Mowbray is delinquent, but in fact Tristan has merely taken up with a man and is too infatuated to follow his regular jogging route or buy Colgate Total Whitening Plus toothpaste. There’s little cause to worry, though, Mowbray knows. Tristan will come back to them. One way or another.
Thursday, October 7, 2010